


A Miracle

by quickmanifyouloveme



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ace Spectrum, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demisexuality, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickmanifyouloveme/pseuds/quickmanifyouloveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It comes to Enjolras, one bright morning."</p>
<p>In which Enjolras has a Big Demi Realization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miracle

            It comes to Enjolras, one bright morning: eight o’clock sharp, in pristine jeans and one of Jehan’s blouses (R thinks he doesn’t notice, but he does), sunlight streaming through dingy white curtains, warming the kitchen of the flat he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac share, while he stirs cream into his coffee. He hears Grantaire shuffle from the living room, having slept on the couch, dressed in Enjolras’s oldest, softest shirt and _someone’s_ boxers; hears his socks flop against the kitchen floor as he approaches; feels his arm lazily snake around Enjolras’s waist, forehead on his nape, soft breath on his shoulder; nearly drops the mug.

            “Hey, you,” Enjolras whispers, frozen. He lays a hand over Grantaire’s where it rests on his abdomen, curls their fingers together.

            “Hey to you, too,” Grantaire says. “Why are we whispering? I thought your flatmates were at Jehan’s.”

            “They are.”

            Grantaire waits for elaboration and shrugs when none comes. He plucks the mug from Enjolras’s shaking hand, sips from it, and scrunches his nose in distaste. “I don’t think this is coffee anymore. I hypothesize, in fact, were Joly to test it in his lab, he’d find there’s two percent of coffee diluted— _ruined_ —with ninety-eight percent milk and cream. A travesty, truly.”

            He moves to face Enjolras, fingers still entwined, and raises his eyebrows—searching for a response—before turning to fiddle with the coffee machine. Enjolras stares at his back as Grantaire stretches and reaches for another mug from the cabinet; he thinks, _I’m in love with you._

            He’s always known he felt a little off-kilter, a little differently from what everyone described as _a healthy sex life_ , _natural development_ , _basic instinct_ ; he’s had sex with people he trusts—Combeferre, mostly—and he’s enjoyed it, but he’s never _ached_ forit. It’s never hit him in his kitchen at eight in the morning cradling a mug of coffee that he may want to ask Grantaire to pin him down and take him as a sign of trust and love. As a physical “I love you”.

            He stands there now, watches Grantaire inhale his tar-black coffee, leaning against the counter, wearing Enjolras’s shirt and humming to himself, morning sun framing his messy curls. He hardly registers it when he says,

            “Perhaps you’d like to sleep in my room tonight?”

            Grantaire stares. Silence. Enjolras squirms.

            “You stayed over last night because you fell asleep on the couch during _V for Vendetta_ and it would have been a waste to wake you up and make you call a cab so it wasn’t exactly planned, and I do live with two other people so it’s not like we’d be completely alone, and we haven’t really talked about sex—although an invitation to my bedroom does not necessarily equal an invitation to sex—but really what I want to say is I love you and I’m ready and if you just want to sleep then that’s fine, too. But you can do it in my bed.”

            Grantaire is frozen for a moment—and then he smiles. He steps closer, hair’s breadth away, cups Enjolras’s face in his hand and grasps his hip with the other. “You love me?”

            “Yes, it’s come to my attention.”

            Grantaire’s gaze turns serious. “And you’re ready?”

            “Not right now, obviously, I have a class at nine and I haven’t eaten breakfast yet—“

            “You’re _ready_?”

            Enjolras looks him straight in the eye and nods. “I’m ready. I want you.”

            Grantaire grins and kisses his cheek, tension dissolved. “Well, that’s all right, then. I hope you’ll still love me when you’re late to class, because I’m making you a celebratory omelette.”

            Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Celebrating what? Demisexuality? Love? A new era of progressive social advances and international support and protest?”

            Grantaire swoops in and kisses Enjolras soundly, all the while blindly rummaging in the fridge for eggs. “For every day I get to do that, and more.” He sets to work on breakfast, Enjolras dazed and laughing in the middle of his own kitchen.

            He’s only half an hour late for his first class—a miracle.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it took me this long to write E/R.  
> This was written initially for tumblr user pufftaire, who proposed ace!Enjolras and tried to claim the URL demijolras, which I'd already taken. And I'm demisexual. And homoromantic. There was no way not to write this.


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